At Peace With The Thirst Inside
by CitronPresse
Summary: Three separate character-based ficlets written for various challenges.  Characters: Burke,  Burke/Cristina ; Addison; Lexie,  Mark/Lexie .


A Lesser Man?, Character: Burke (Burke/Cristina)

Summary: _He's going over his credentials, reminding himself of the man he tries – and succeeds, he believes – to be._ Set concurrent with Season 7. Rated: K

Sunlight spills over the polished table: a touch of spontaneity to complement the careful aesthetics of his one-man breakfast setting. He sips his coffee from a fine white china mug, savoring the aroma and taste of the blend he's been perfecting over the last few days; takes a forkful of herb-infused egg white omelet, a slice of avocado, chews slowly, then lays down his fork and returns to the papers in front of him.

He's up for Chief of Surgery. Another city, another hospital, and this time he's pretty much a sure thing. But he prefers to be prepared, to have substance to show for himself, so he's going over his credentials, reminding himself of the man he tries – and succeeds, he believes – to be.

An article commands his attention: just a piece of journalism, nothing medically significant or deep; an out-of-date announcement in a Seattle newspaper of one of the city's own winning the Harper Avery. (His throat catches slightly against morsels of egg white and cilantro and he knows too well it is memories rather than food causing the problem, and that memories are not so easy to swallow.)

He has told himself he did the right thing - by her, by himself. He had been a lesser man for hiding his frailty and allowing an intern to operate for him. That he left her out of his success story was necessary: he had work to do, lives to save, and to do that he needed to clean up after this chapter of his life.

He would have been a lesser man had he gone through with the wedding, compromising himself and the depth of his commitment, forcing her into a life that would have confined her just like her ambivalently worn wedding clothes.

And yet.

They were a team. In the spaces between fear and defiance and pushing, there was love, on both sides, such as he has never known and, for all his integrity, all his achievements, all the satisfying order in his life, there is an absence that no rationalizations, no powerfully held principles can cover up.

Despite all his efforts, he finds himself a lesser man; and what makes him so is that he is without her.

* * *

><p><span>At Peace With The Thirst Inside<span>, Character: Addison

Summary: Addison contemplates by the ocean. Set now-ish and in L.A. Rated: PG-13

She used to be fun.

She can remember light-heartedness and witty comebacks; smiles over cups of coffee; late nights dancing followed by early mornings doing rounds and all of it filled with an energy she can't quite put her finger on now.

The cynical part of her insinuates that it was only adrenaline, ambition, sexual tension and way too much caffeine. She tells it – out loud, she realizes halfway through – to _shut up_, increasing the volume to _shut the fuck up!_ when the detracting whisper persists. A sob follows the words, but she swallows it down, because she's just so tired of crying and that's not what she's chasing right now. Not even close.

She remembers Derek's blue eyes on their first date; remembers their first time in bed; the first baby she saved; the way Mark grunted then laughed when she woke him up by tickling his chest; a day spent sailing with her father in the sun; the kittens she and Archer found in the orchard behind the rose garden when she was five; the surprisingly good taste of take-out fast food after a party, shared with Derek and Mark before they were really anything to each other, and certainly nothing screwed-up. She remembers graduating from med school, her first solo surgery, her first solo sex!, and all the blended senses of getting lost in touch and taste and warm wet tongues and fingers and kisses and, right now, it doesn't even matter with whom.

She remembers _herself_, finds herself grinning, finds herself _being_, lifts her glass of wine to the sun setting over the Pacific ocean and releases a long breath.

She used to be fun. Somewhere private, deep down and stirring, she thinks perhaps still is.

* * *

><p><span>Familiar<span>, Character: Lexie (Mark/Lexie)

Summary: _Her mind is reeling, but her body doesn't care, barely even registers her objections_. Set post-Season 7. Rated: T

One moment she was avoiding him – the habitual ritual of sweeping unwanted feelings under the rug as she holds his gaze with forthright eyes in what would be a challenge if she cared enough; the next, by some unspoken shift, they're in an on-call room, her back against the wall, eyes now playing back and forth with open, angry, hurt desire.

Her mind is reeling, but her body doesn't care, barely even registers her objections. It just aches for him; for the feel of his hand against her skin; his fingers working past her scrub pants and panties; his hands on her breasts. He kisses her, hungry against her neck, no sentiment, no words, no explanation, and between nothing and everything, quick-fire lust and slow-burning complications, her nerves are screaming.

He pulls her scrub top roughly over her head, bears down on her as his hips push her between himself and the locked door, until something hesitates between them, momentary and fragile as she looks up at him tenderly and his hand gently grazes the side of her face. It's not love exactly, but it's reminiscent of love, reminiscent of him, of her when they were more than this, and she can't allow that.

"No."

"Right." His voice is hoarse, damaged, heavy with feelings he's not supposed to feel, but his body wants hers too and the moment breaks, hands and skin colliding until she comes, sweet, sharp and biting her lip, and he groans as he spills inside her.

It was just sex, she tells herself afterwards; and he leaves, no lingering, no questions, no fingers twined in her hair. But she wishes, as she pulls her clothes on, as she edges feelings back under the rug, that every inch of her body didn't recognize every inch of his.


End file.
